


The Stating of Words

by Fantasyenabler



Series: The Power of Words [2]
Category: Marvel, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: 5000-10000 Words, M/M, Series, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-11
Updated: 2010-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-07 21:37:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantasyenabler/pseuds/Fantasyenabler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby's not good with words.  Unfortunately, life is full of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a response to the[](http://community.livejournal.com/frozen_breaths/profile)[**frozen_breaths**](http://community.livejournal.com/frozen_breaths/) fic challenge and is a companion piece to my [](http://community.livejournal.com/jetass/profile)[**jetass**](http://community.livejournal.com/jetass/) fic challenge The Naming of Names.

Clay is heavy, Bobby thinks, as he struggles his way in his front door, cardboard box held protectively under his left arm. Once he's a few steps in and can reach the basket his mom sets out for visitor's shoes, he drops his books from underneath his right arm, the sixth grade math book his teacher gave him colliding in the basket with his fifth grade one, and slides both hands more securely under the box. His art teacher's already graded it, but he still wants to be careful with it, just like he wants to be careful with the note taped to the outside too. It's in an envelope, but what with trying to hold on to the box, the envelope's gotten a little crumpled, and he hopes the note's okay. He figures it is, but it'd just be his luck if it isn't, so he hopes that it's okay.

It has to be okay so he can give it to his mom and she can know what his art teacher said to him today. He had Ms. James repeat it at least three times when she was talking to him, before asking her if she'd write it down on a piece of school stationery and tape it to the box herself. When she asked why, he told her he wanted to make it as official as possible, so she also put it in an envelope, something Bobby wouldn't have thought of, and sealed it with an address sticker.

He didn't know she only lived a few blocks away from him. He wonders if she'd mind his coming by to see her sometime.

He also wonders what she was thinking when she had that funny look on her face when he walked out the door. She'd started looking at him that way when she was folding up the note, so he made sure to tell her that he's just not that good at remembering what people say to him. He didn't add what his dad said that time, about his having a wind tunnel in between his ears, but she still kept looking at him funny. He decided that he'd better leave then, afraid that if he said anything else, she'd start thinking he was really weird.

Well, weirder than everyone at school already thinks he is anyway.

He can hear the TV playing in the living room, and realizes that he stayed so late after school that his dad's home from work. He sighs as he sees the lights from the screen flickering out into the hallway, then slowly looks back down at the box. His fingertips hook against the cardboard bottom like they want to dig far inside, and he takes a deep breath, counting the seconds until he lets it out. After five Mississippis, he walks down the hall. The Yankees are playing the Orioles when he steps into the room, and he's happy to see that the Yanks are up by two.

His dad's always happier when the Yanks are winning. And the Jets, and the Knicks, and his friends who play in the Long Island Softball League, and some other teams from outside of New York that his dad follows just because he saw them a time or two when he was in the Army. Enough teams that Bobby sometimes can't keep track of them all, to be honest, but he thinks the last time he looked, the Yankees were doing well in the AL East. Well enough that Baltimore should be an easy win, he thinks, and not something he needs to worry about.

He stomps his way into the room, a sure way of getting his dad's attention. "Hey, Dad," he says putting the box on the coffee table in front of the recliner, just a little left of the line of sight with the television. "Look at what I made after school today."

His dad frowns at something on the television, then frowns at Bobby before squinting at the coffee table. "You made a box?" he asks.

Bobby shakes his head and starts to lift off the top. "No, I made what's in the box." He slides the cardboard carefully, not wanting to hurt the clay, so the sculpture emerges slowly, from the top of the spire to the manes on the horses to the round floor underneath their hooves. "See, it's a carousel, like the one in Prospect Park, only I changed it so it wasn't surrounded by all that brick. I couldn't make all of the horses, but I worked really hard on the ones I did make and the art teacher said they looked really good and that I made it look like it was pretty close to the real thing, which she would know because she went with us on the field trip that time."

"Uh-huh." His dad nods, still squinting at the coffee table, then squinting at the TV, before turning back to Bobby again. "I see," he says.

Bobby squats down and puts his finger on the top of the spire, wishing he could make it spin. That was something he wanted it to do, but couldn't figure out how to do using clay. It's a shame, he thinks. Carousels are so much better when they're spinning.

He thinks about telling his dad that, but when he lifts his eyes from where his finger touches the spire, his dad's not looking at him anymore.

"My art teacher said it was really good," he says again.

"Uh-huh," his dad says.

"Honey." Bobby turns, and there's his mom, standing in the living room doorway. "Why don't you come and help me in the kitchen? You can set the table while I finish cooking and save me the trouble, okay?"

Bobby sighs and takes his hand off the sculpture. "Okay," he says, looking for the box top. He covers the clay back up and lifts it off the table slowly, not wanting to dump it on the floor.

He glances at his dad a few times while he does it. His dad doesn't glance back.

His mom beckons. "Come on, baby," she says, as he gathers everything up and follows her out into the hall.

Behind him, the crowd starts screaming on the television. As he walks down the hall, he thinks he hears his dad stammering words at the screen.

He follows his mom into the kitchen. He's just across the threshold when something makes him stop and not want to go any farther. His mom turns and frowns. "Bobby," she asks, "are you all right?"

He doesn't know what he's going to say until he says it. "He's never liked me. He wishes he had some other kid instead of me, doesn't he?"

"Oh, baby, no." He doesn't feel her doing it, but in a matter of seconds, she has him gathered up and in a chair, his box safely on the table, in that super-quick-Mom way of hers, before kneeling down and hugging him. "He likes you. He likes you and he loves you, really. He's just not very good at talking to little boys, okay?"

Bobby rubs his finger against the box. The note is still taped there, waiting in its envelope. He touches its edge and pushes at where the paper's been creased.

His mom rubs his hair. "Okay?" she asks again.

He pulls his hand back. "Okay," he says. "It's okay."

His mom kisses him on the temple. "Good," she says, standing back up and walking to the stove where she has some pots boiling. "Now, tell me, how was school?"

"It was good," he says, carefully tugging the tape off the envelope and separating it from the box.

His mom hums as she stirs one of her pots. "Really," she says, "that's good."

"Yeah," he says, holding the envelope in his hands.

His mom turns and checks whatever piece of meat she has in the oven.

Bobby takes the envelope and rips it into pieces.

 


	2. Part Two of "The Stating of Words," NC-17 Sam/Bobby slash fic

Hank's got an envelope in his large pink hand when Bobby barges into his room one day, having decided that Shakespeare's overrated and wanting someone to listen to him while he lists off his reasons why. Hank's obviously not in the mood to be an attentive audience though, since he barely notices Bobby's entrance, his focus totally on flipping that envelope across and through his thick fingers as gracefully as a magician would with a quarter.

Bobby plops himself down on Hank's bed, facing where Hank's sitting at his desk. "What's hanging, Hankster?" he asks. "Somebody send you a letter bomb?"

Hank starts and catches the envelope in mid-flip. "What?" he asks, looking at Bobby for the first time. "No," he says. "No letter bomb. Merely an everyday missive from my parental units. Most likely a detailing of whatever mundane events have transpired since the last time they communicated with me. So again, nothing explosive involved."

Bobby shifts around trying to find a comfortable position on Hank's bed. He likes his mattresses firm, the big guy does. "So why are you looking at it like it's going to bite you or something?"

"I'm not." Hank takes the envelope and shoves it in a desk drawer. "I was merely contemplating the most effective use of my time, to read about events that probably have not changed since last I heard about them or to engage myself in some needed physical exercise." He smirks at Bobby, in a way Bobby would consider threatening from anyone except Hank. "Seeing as how you have so fortuitously landed on my doorstep, I shall have to take that as a sign that I should choose the latter and draft you into service as my workout partner."

Bobby sighs as he straightens up. He really doesn't have anything against going to train right now, but he doesn't want Hank to think he's gotten one up on him or something. "Oh, come on. Is that any way to talk about a letter written by your very own parents? You should be a good son and read it before going to do anything else. You know they probably read _your_ letters the minute they pull them out of the mailbox."

"True. Too true," Hank says before pausing for breath, gearing up, Bobby guesses, for the many, many, many things he's about to say back. Bobby expects the next series of words—or sentences, or paragraphs, you can never tell with Hank—to be some sort of speech on Hank's greatness as a writer, of how anyone would want to read his letters immediately. It's the sort of banter he's come to expect from his older, easygoing bookworm of a teammate, the kind they've slowly developed between the two of them ever since they spent some serious bonding time on that road trip a few months back.

That's why he's surprised when Hank follows up with nothing. He just stands there for a second, staring at the desk with this weird look on his face. Then he turns to Bobby and says quickly, "It suddenly occurs to me, Robert, that we should go see if our teammates are also about. As much as I enjoy our half-serious duels, it may be more beneficial for all of us to drill together. In any case, it would certainly be more efficient in terms of use of training time..."

He's partway out the door when Bobby jumps off the bed and grabs him by the arm. "Whoa, Hank, wait a minute there." He leans out to see if anybody's walking by in the hall outside Hank's room before pulling Hank back inside, shutting the door, and leaning against it. Hank doesn't give him any trouble doing so, the big man going limp like a doll and going to sit on the edge of his firm, firm bed. Once they're both settled, Bobby asks, "What's going on? Seriously, man. I can tell something's up. It's nearly as obvious as that time we dumped the Blob into an industrial paint vat and he came out neon green."

Hank huffs an impatient breath, and tenses up like he's about to use several, big long words of dictionary death to tell Bobby he's crazy. It only lasts a second though, probably the amount of time it takes Hank's quick brain to decide that sometimes it's pointless to try to fight. "You'll think me maudlin if I tell you," he says instead.

Bobby moves from his post at the door and comes to sit beside Hank on the bed. "Well," he says, "first off, in order for me to do that, you're going to have to tell me what maudlin means. Second, if that's as bad as you make it sound, I really doubt it. I meant what I said back in Florida. You're my main nerd, dude, and you'd have to do something truly heinously hideous for me think anything bad about you."

Hank opens his mouth, then shakes his head. "'Heinously hideous?'" he mutters before turning to Bobby and staring at him like he's examining him under a microscope or some other piece of scientific equipment Bobby's seen him use. Finally, after a long moment, he starts to speak. "I believe I am suffering from the effects of separation from my familiar familial environment. I do not wish to read that letter because I feel it will only exacerbate my feelings of longing and evoke in me a desire to abandon my more recent allegiances and return to the comfort of those more longstanding. Hence, I have put it aside until a time when reading it will be less fraught with possible negative emotional responses."

"Huh?" Bobby says. Really, he thinks, it's about the most intelligent response he can make right now. More than that would imply that he got maybe more than a third of all of that SAT vocabulary abuse, and considering he's doubtful about that third, he figures he's going to have to stick with "Huh?"

Thankfully, Hank doesn't say anything to him about it. He just smiles softly and says, "I'm homesick, Robert."

Oh. Well. Now that's something Bobby can understand.

Kind of. Sort of.

Or at least, you know, he could, if he had any desire to go home himself these days. To get back to the townspeople who tried to hang him and the parents who weren't that easy to talk to before they found out he was a mutant who could freeze people into blocks of ice.

Yeah, he'd totally understand if that were the case.

Hank watches him as Bobby chases that line of thought around his brain and after a second or two, he smiles that soft little smile again. "Come on, Robert," he says. "Let's go train. I think that would be best right now."

"No, wait," Bobby says, his hands grabbing his much stronger teammate without thinking about what they're doing. "It's just," he starts, "give me a minute, would you?"

Hank shakes his head. "Robert, it's not necessary. Just knowing that you want to help is enough…"

"No, it's not." Bobby makes himself think about it all. About how when you look at all five of them and start counting, you see that Scott doesn't have anybody, and Warren has parents he doesn't talk to so he might as well have nobody, and Jeanie has great parents, but lately, she's been acting like she doesn't want to have them coming around the X-Men any more than necessary, like she's scared of it or something, so she's become another zero. Then you add in Bobby…

You add in Bobby and you're getting into a serious negative here.

So Hank's the only one. The only one who has anything to lose or give up. The only one who hasn't let go, who shouldn't have to let go.

And the result of all that is a second, one crazy, thought-twisting, stomach-churning second, where Bobby thinks about telling Hank to go home. He seriously does. Telling him to get out while he can and enjoy what he has before it's gone.

Even if Bobby will miss him like crazy. Even if he has absolutely no idea where this feeling's suddenly coming from

"Robert." Hank's hands have moved to settle on Bobby's shoulders and he himself is crouching before where Bobby's sitting on the bed. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to bring you down into my gulf of despond with me."

"You didn't," Bobby says and it's true. "I just, I just…"

He reaches out and hugs Hank. It's the only thing he knows how to say.

He figures his meaning gets across when Hank hugs him back.

He guesses this means that he chose the right words.

He hopes he did anyway.

For both of their sakes, he hopes.

 


	3. Part Three of "The Stating of Words," NC-17 Sam/Bobby slash fic

LA restaurants are weird places, Bobby thinks. They're not like New York where you can walk in and know what you're going to get by the feel of the booths and the attitude of the staff and the customers. Instead, LA always keeps you guessing, with cozy coffee shops serving exotic food and exotic bistros serving hamburgers. It's all too much for a college kid's budget anyway, so he mostly ignores it. Or at least he does until Warren comes to town.

Warren, of course, wants to go to one of these exotic confusing places. Bobby just shrugs and says, "Sure," not bothering to mention that Warren's going to end up paying the bill.

Really, if the guy doesn't realize that after all of the time they've spent together, then he just hasn't been paying attention.

"Bobby," Warren says, as he reaches out and lowers the menu Bobby made the mistake of trying to read like it was a normal New York menu. "Talk to me, kiddo. How are you doing out here?"

"I'm okay," Bobby says, as he creates a few more ice cubes for his water. "It's a little odd being out here, but I think I'm slowly adjusting to the whole West Coast-ness of it all."

"I'm glad that you are," Warren says as he hands over his own water glass for Bobby to chill. "Myself, I haven't quite gotten over the situation that chased us both out of Westchester. I think I'm still angry, to tell you the truth."

"I'm not," Bobby says, and it's true. He's not, not much anyway. "Occasionally, I think about something somebody said that night, and it smarts, but other than that, I don't think it bothers me."

"You're lucky," Warren says, looking around for their waitress before giving it up for lost. "I'll think I'm over it, but then I'll start thinking about how the professor couldn't understand why we'd be upset about his bringing a bunch of outsiders into the team, the home, _we'd_ built for ourselves. Then I get angry about it again and can't get over it." He leans back into his chair, or at least as far back as the wings harnessed against his back will allow. "It's like he didn't know us at all or didn't think of us the way we thought about him. It just, it just sort of burns, whenever I think about it."

"I know," Bobby says, wanting to tell Warren that he's preaching to the choir, except the phrase doesn't seem right when you're saying it to someone who's actually called "Angel." "Are you going to be mad at him forever?" he asks instead.

Warren straightens up in his seat and stares out the window at the activity on the street a story below them. He watches it for a long moment before finally saying, "No. I don't think so. I am going to need some time to get past it before I see him again though."

Bobby nods his head thinking it's exactly what he expected. It's hard to stay mad at Professor X. He knew that even before this latest dust-up, thanks to the time he got mad and left the team over the whole deal with X lying to them about the Z'Nox. He wasn't able to stay away for long and he doubts neither he nor Warren will be able to this time either. That means he has some things he might want to try to get sorted out first…. "Warren, can I ask you something?"

Warren puts down the water he was about to take a drink of, his eyes narrowing at the tone of Bobby's question. "Sure, anything, you know that." He tries to lean back in his chair again. "Shoot," he says.

"Do you think I'm a racist?"

"What?" Warren abruptly sits forward, brushing the table in a way that jostles both their waters. "No. Hell, no," he says, moving back again. "Why on earth would you think something like that?"

"I got into it with a few of the new guys that last night. I was pissed because I felt like we'd been invaded, but I think, looking back on what they said, they thought I was angry because I didn't like the fact that some of them didn't look human or that some of them weren't American. I think they thought I was being racist, and…I don't know…I mean, I know what I was mad about, but still…"

Warren shakes his head. "I can't believe you're even thinking about this. Look, Bobby, whatever you said, of course, it was going to be as hurtful as you could make it. You were angry. We all were, and we had good reason to be. End of story."

Actually, Bobby thinks, it's not the end of the story. What Warren doesn't know, has never heard, are the words and insults Bobby's dad likes to throw at people who've pissed him off in some way when those same people are a different color or from a different background. All Warren knows is what Bobby's told everyone, that whenever he goes home, he and his dad do pretty much nothing but fight. He also doesn't know that Bobby's always told himself that he's not like his dad, that he would never stoop to his level of petty hate and insults when it comes to dealing with people.

Except now he has.

Oh, God.

Across the table, Warren's eyes are narrowing again. "Bobby," he says, in that tone of voice Bobby's come to recognize as You're-about-to-make-me-admit-that-I'm-not-as-shallow-as-a-wading-pool-so-I'd-appreciate-your-listening. "I don't think you should be feeling so down on yourself right now. Take it from me, I've known real elitists, people who've had it taught to them since birth that they're a genetic level above everyone else and that anything they do, they have a right to do." He pauses and glances out the window, seeing something Bobby doesn't, before turning back again. "You are nothing like those people, okay? You just got mad and lashed out in the worst way you could think of. It doesn't mean that on some level you actually think you're better than other people. After all, if you really did, then why would you be so afraid of the idea?"

Bobby can tell he's not supposed to answer that, as Warren shifts in his seat, his expensive, uncomfortable seat. Bobby wonders if it would ever occur to Warren to give in and try going to a cheap dive where the booths would be easier for him to sit in. "Anyway," Warren says, "you're not a racist. You're just a kid who got chased out of his home, that's all. Don't worry yourself by thinking of it as anything more than that."

Bobby sighs and stares into his water. Which needs more ice again, he realizes. "That's all?" he asks.

Warren nods. "That's all," he says, suddenly looking over Bobby's shoulder and smiling.

Bobby turns his head to see what Warren's seeing. Then smirks when he realizes it appears they really do have a waitress, one who's coming right towards them.

He turns back to the table and Warren's looking at him again. "You're listening to what I'm saying, right?" he asks. "You're not just nodding your head and letting it fly it right by?"

Bobby bites off the remark on the tip of his tongue about that being something Warren would know about. "No, I'm listening. Not a racist. Just an angry person. Chased out of my home for no good reason."

Warrens nods again. "Yes. Exactly." He waves to their waitress who's stopped to grab them some silverware. While he waves, he says so lowly that Bobby has to strain to hear him. "Besides, you weren't the only one."

Bobby thinks that he should say something to that.

Then the waitress is there and Warren is off and flirting.

Bobby stares out the window at the street below as the waitress apologizes for keeping them waiting.

He still can't see whatever it was Warren was seeing.

 


	4. Part Four of "The Stating of Words," NC-17 Sam/Bobby slash fic

The rose bush makes Bobby nervous, as he applies a layer of frost to the grass nearby. Storm told him that working around plants would be a great way of testing his fine control, that part of why they appeal to her is the fact that they're so much more sensitive to the elements than other parts of nature. Bobby's never really thought about it before himself. He's always been sort of a let-fly-and-see-what-happens kind of guy when it comes to his powers and he's never taken notice of what effect it might be having on anything green and leafy. Now that he knows though, he kind of wishes he didn't. The thought of killing something accidentally, especially something as pretty as this rose bush, makes him feel sicker than he ever would have imagined.

Like somewhere on some plant level they're holding meetings about "The Great Evil." With his picture on the wall behind the mossy podium and on little badges pinned to their squishy little stems. Meanwhile, there's a pit where donations of water can be made to the inadvertent victims of his flashfreezes, minded by one-petaled seedlings waving tambourines made out of bark chips and pine cone pieces.

The visuals are actually more detailed than he wants. As they always tend to be with anything Bobby ends up imagining.

"Having fun?" a female voice asks from behind him.

He turns, careful to shut the spray of cold off before he does, and looks to see who's talking. Jeannie's beautiful as per usual. Even in nothing more than a pair of old jeans and a tee shirt and sneakers that have holes along the seams, she's practically flawless physically, but Bobby's come to realize over the years that it's not her beauty that takes his breath away whenever he sees her. That it's actually something more. Something about her spirit, her soul, that he and his fumbling ice are constantly trying to capture in flawed images. "I'm not playing; I'm practicing," he says as she settles into the garden swing nearby. "I asked Storm to tutor me, to help me gain more control over my powers, and she suggested working with plants so I'd have a better feel for temperatures."

Jeanie nods, as she pats the seat beside her. When he joins her, she says, "Those sound like good ideas, both what you're doing and your going to Storm. I've thought about suggesting it, to be honest, but I wasn't sure…."

Jeanie trails off, and that's all Bobby needs to know that he's supposed to pick up the dropped thought and run with it. "You weren't so sure how I'd take it," he says, smirking a little so she knows he's okay with the idea. "Of how sensitive I was to the fact that the last few months seem to have been all about everybody and their second cousin showing me how much better they could use my powers than me."

Jeanie smirks back in her own softly wry way. "Yes, there is that," she says. "I also didn't know how you'd take it so soon after that little talk I gave you in the book shop a few weeks ago though. I do think it's important that we all approach the development of our own powers in our own time and in our own way, and I didn't want you to think that I was pushing you into something, but still…."

"It was a good idea, and I appreciate you trying to look out for me." Bobby reaches out and takes her right hand into both of his. Her skin always feels so warm. "You and Hank…_and_ Scott and Warren, although they do it in their own uniquely emotionally-awkward styles…you all try to take care of me, in one way or another. I do know that, and I'm grateful for it."

Jeanie grips his right hand more tightly. "I hear a 'But' in there somewhere," she says.

Slowly Bobby nods. "Sometimes, sometimes I feel like I haven't done enough for the rest of _you._ Like I haven't even begun to give you a return on your investments in me."

Jeanie sighs, her mouth barely opening to form words her powerful mutant brain could force on him, if it weren't the kind of thing she hates to do.

Bobby hears them all the same. "I know," he says. "I know what you're going to say, that it doesn't work like that with us, that I sound more like an accountant than your little brother when I say that." Her lips close and Bobby keeps going. "But I can't help feeling this way, like I've failed to perform my end of the bargain, and it's not fair to the rest of you because it means you keep having to carry my part of the workload."

"Oh, sweetie." Jeanie lets go of his hand, and reaches out and hugs him. "No one's blaming you for anything. No one's thinking you've ever let us down."

Bobby hugs her back. "I know," he says. "I know none of you blame me."

But he also thinks about the events of the last few years. Of Scott losing his son, and of Jean having to take on both Madelyne's memories and the Phoenix's when she didn't want to. Of the way Hank's been ping-ponged between his non-furry and furry states, and finally about everything Cameron Hodge and Apocalypse did to poor Warren….

"Maybe you should though," he says, still holding her. "Maybe things could have been different if I'd been better about pushing myself to know everything that I can do."

Jeanie shakes her head, her long hair sliding over where her head's resting on Bobby's left shoulder. "You can't take that all on yourself," she says, the words vibrating into the uncovered skin on Bobby's neck. "You're not the only one who could be constantly asking themselves that question."

She stiffens a little in his arms, and he finds himself running his hands in circles along her spine. They're both quiet until he asks, "Do you ever have to ask yourself that question, Jeanie?"

She doesn't look at him when she answers. "Every minute of every single day, little bro. Every minute of every single day."

He doesn't say anything to that. He figures it's better if they both just keep on hugging each other for as long as they possibly can.

They stay silent while they do.

 


	5. Part Five of "The Stating of Words," NC-17 Sam/Bobby slash fic

The room's dark and that's the way Bobby wants it. He doesn't want to think about any of the stuff that's been worrying him lately, the images that like to float across his mind and refuse to leave him alone. For the moment, he just wants to ignore those nightmares and enjoy holding his sleeping lover, to spend some time pretending he hasn't seen and heard the terrible sights and sounds he so often dreams. The devastation and the deaths. The pain and the losses. All the horrors that he imagines might happen because he wasn't brave enough to give into his constantly growing powers and see where they want to take him.

Not that his powers actually want to take him somewhere. Bobby realizes that. He knows that what he's really doing is something more like "fighting his biological destiny" or whatever Emma wants to call it today. That he's standing on the verge of being able to manipulate fearsome amounts of power, and that the others are watching to see which way he jumps with it. After all, they've already been through the wars with this sort of situation before. They know that having power isn't necessarily a good thing, and that if it goes bad, it has the capacity to pull them all under along with it.

Bobby knows it too. That's why he's fighting taking hold of those particular reins.

Has always fought anyway.

He hates to admit it, but that may not be possible much longer.

Which is a shame really. Because it's an approach that has sounded pretty smart to him over the years, to let the sticky situations fall into the charge of the people who are generally acknowledged to be better at the fighting and the thinking and the problemsolving and the strategizing.

Until he sees who ends up getting hurt by it all.

The fact that it's usually someone he cares about scares the hell out of him.

Beside him, Sam shifts in his sleep, nuzzling his blond head against Bobby's chest and Bobby gives in to temptation and runs his fingers through Sam's hair. Thankfully, it doesn't wake Sam, just makes him turn towards the source of the contact and hum a little in his sleep. He also pulls tighter with the arm he has thrown over Bobby's torso, his fingers digging into the muscles along Bobby's side. It hurts a little, to tell the truth, but not enough to wake Sam up and make him stop. Sam didn't get a lot of sleep the night before, choosing to stay up and keep Bobby company rather than take his own rest, and Bobby's grateful. He doesn't want to keep making Sam do that though. One of them walking around sleep-deprived is bad enough.

God only knows what might happen if they had to fight that way.

Bobby shudders. The thought is not a particularly comforting one.

Of course, neither are his nightmares. His subconscious seems determined to kick him in the ass about the whole Omega thing, if the images it has been throwing at him are any indication. It's also not playing fair. Since it's a part of him, it knows that he's wondered in the past if having better control over his powers might not have stopped certain events.

He's getting very, very sick of watching the people he loves die.

Knowing it's all just a dream doesn't make it any easier to take.

He's getting even sicker of having to deal with the certainty that he could have saved everyone in each new nightmare, if only he'd been brave enough to use everything that's available to him. It doesn't matter how much the stakes rise each night. He wakes up knowing in his bones that he had the power to handle it. That all he had to do was give in and let go.

And this last one was the worst one.

This last one starred Sam.

And demons. And lots and lots of screaming.

Mostly his, Bobby remembers. Sam doesn't give in easily, and even Bobby's dreams know it. His lover's securely grounded in himself, as weird as that is to think about a flyer. Grounded in his soul, his spirit, his sense of his self. Sam knows who he's supposed to be and has accepted it on every level. It gives him a strength that Bobby hasn't seen in too many people, one that Bobby has to admit he's awed by.

He's also, if he's being totally honest, more than a little jealous.

Sam shifts again, as if he's reading Bobby's thoughts and wanting to defend himself somehow.

"Sleep, baby," Bobby whispers, rubbing Sam's hair, and trying not to think about how those strands were limp with sweat and blood in his dream. How Sam's blue eyes were dazed by the pain and the strain of holding himself together. How Bobby was ready to rip himself apart to get to him and how some force kept pulling him away.

"That's not going to happen," he whispers to the shadows dancing in the ceiling corners. "I'll do whatever I have to do before I let that happen."

Deep down, he knows that's true.

The only problem is that he doesn't know where what he might have to do might end up taking him.

What if it tears him away from Sam?

What if it means becoming permanently ice again? Or worse, becoming a form that isn't even close to being human at all?

Bobby doesn't know if he can do that, if he can give up so much in exchange for the promise of power.

If it weren't for the fact that he might have to…that he might need to…

Around his chest, Sam's arm tightens again. His brow's furrowing, Bobby sees, and he's started mumbling under his breath.

Great, Bobby thinks. My nightmares have become contagious. Great. That's just great.

"Great," he sighs, cursing everything that might exist in the planes of existence beyond the ceiling before looking down at the sleeper in his arms.

"Sammy," he whispers, not wanting to jar the sleeping man. "Sammy, come on, baby, wake up. You're having a bad dream."

"Bobby," Sam whimpers before wrapping his arms and pulling Bobby closer.

Bobby brushes his lips across Sam's forehead and hugs him back. "I'm here, Sammy," he says.

Sam's face contorts and his hands move, fingers clenching and unclenching. "Don't leave me," he says. "Please, please don't leave me."

He's still asleep, Bobby realizes, pushing some errant strands of hair off Sam's forehead and stroking along the edge of his scalp. "I'm not going anywhere," he says, as he strokes. "I promise you I'm not. I don't want to and I'm not. Not if I can help it anyway."

That seems to be enough for Sam, as his whimpers stop and his body's motions quiet down.

It's not enough for Bobby though, as he suddenly finds himself wanting to touch his lover, regardless of whether or not it wakes him up. He moves his hands down to the upper part of Sam's back, running his fingertips along Sam's bare skin. He paints unseen patterns on his flesh, occasionally resting his palm down to feel Sam's warmth, then picking up his hand and tracing with his fingers again.

He's only a few minutes into this process when he realizes that he's recreating the patterns of the wounds the demons in Bobby's nightmare inflicted on Sam's body. Maybe not to the millimeter, but close enough that they're easily recognizable, easily visualized, easily imagined. All Bobby would have to do is close his eyes and he'd be able to see them and the way they lay on Sam's skin.

The thought's almost enough to make him throw up.

Violently and repeatedly. As much or more so than any awful scene he's ever encountered in a near-lifetime of awful scenes.

The armful of Sam's the only thing that stops it. Just barely, but it does.

It demands a trade-off though, unlocking something inside Bobby that needs to get out.

Bobby's more than happy to let it go.

"This really isn't fair, you know," he says, his fingers touching the surface of Sam's hair. "I feel like I've spent most of my life getting pulled apart in one way or another, with each and every time costing me more and more of my pieces. I'll put myself back, but it's never the same. I'm always having to adjust for what's gone, to convince myself that it's worth what's new. And to wonder, out of everything that's left, which parts still truly belong to me?"

He shifts one of his hands and lays it against the warmth of Sam's neck, feeling the strong pulse beating just below the skin. "You're a piece I don't want to lose. Either to something that gets past this weird sort-of-immortality of yours, or to a decision I'm forced to make to keep everybody safe… I don't want to see it happen. And I'm not going to let it happen. I promise you right now it doesn't matter what form I end up in—a cloud of scattered molecules, a crushed snowball, frost on a window on the other side of the planet—I'm coming back to you. I refuse to lose anything or anyone this time around. You're going to be what I hold on to, and I don't care how many times I have to turn myself inside out to be able to do it."

He kisses Sam on the top of his head. He kisses him again and again, rubbing his fingers across Sam's face as he does so. "So I'm sorry, Sammy," he says, finally pulling back. "I'm afraid you're just stuck with me."

"Sounds awful."

"Ack!" is the rather impressive sound Bobby makes when he hears that. Not even a true word, although it doesn't take long for true words to follow. "I thought you were asleep!"

"I was," Sam says, lifting his head off Bobby's chest, blue eyes crinkled in drowsy amusement. "Something woke me up though." He reaches for Bobby's hand and kisses it along its edge. "And I can't imagine what it might have been."

"Sam…" Bobby watches as Sam moves up his body; he feels the slide of wet lips on his skin followed by heavy warmth as Sam lays more and more of his weight on top of him. He ought to stop him, he thinks, make him stop and listen as Bobby tries to explain away what he said.

Not that Bobby even begins to know how he'd do that. Or why he should really. He just knows that he didn't intend for Sam to hear any of that, that he never would have said it if he'd known Sam was awake.

He'd meant to just do it, not say it.

He still does. He guesses the fact that Sam expects it now doesn't change anything.

He hopes it doesn't anyway.

"Stop worrying," Sam says right before he kisses Bobby on the mouth, his tongue moving in ways someone who speaks with a thick accent really shouldn't be able to pull off. "I'm not going to give you a hard time for getting sentimental on me, or whatever fool thing it is that you're thinking."

"I just…I didn't mean…" He stops when he sees something tense behind Sam's eyes. "I mean, I _did_ mean what I said. I just…"

"I know," Sam says, and Bobby doesn't need the sudden softness in Sam's face to believe that's true. "I know, Bobby. Trust me, I do."

Bobby nods, fresh words on the tip of his brain. _ Oh, I trust you,_ he wants to say. _ Believe me, I trust you more than I've ever trusted anyone, more than anyone else in my entire freakish weirdo life._

He doesn't get to say them though. Because Sam's kissing him again, and now he's moving, in a way that Bobby would rather not stop.

He settles for latching both hands on the side of Sam's face and putting every unsaid syllable into the pressure of his lips.

Judging by how Sam kisses back, Bobby can only guess that he hears him. Loud and clear.

It's enough that Bobby feels justified in letting the matter go, in turning his entire attention to answering the pressure he's feeling all along the length of his body, the press of Sam against him.

It's a feeling he wishes would never have to end.

But since he knows that's not possible, he tries to make the most of it. He wraps his arms tightly around Sam, pulling him in as close as he can, while he scratches his fingertips lightly along Sam's back. Sam's answer is to dig his own fingers in deeper into Bobby's flesh, something Bobby likes even though he can't explain why. Instead, he hums his approval as Sam kisses him, the kisses constantly moving between Bobby's mouth and his jawline. Bobby finds a space in that rhythm to sneak in a bite to Sam's throat. Sam doesn't say anything in response, but he starts pushing and rubbing their bodies together even harder, so Bobby has to think he liked it.

Besides, a few seconds after that and Bobby's not able to think much of anything.

He's too busy helping Sam keep their joined motions moving in a forward direction to let any random thoughts distract him.

The skin on their chests and abdomens slide together as they go, each new group of seconds breaking down into kissing, touching, and more and more thrusting and pressing. Slide, slide, slide, Bobby thinks he can hear, slide, slide, slide, slide, as he grabs Sam by the back of the head, fingers twined in his thick, blond hair, and pulls his head to the side so Bobby can bite his throat again.

Sam moans. And comes, if the wetness spreading on Bobby's hip is any indication.

Bobby would smile, but Sam shudders and shakes and pushes down hard with every inch of his long, broad body.

Bobby can't do anything but gasp, and feel the inside-pressure the weight of Sam's body summons.

He lets it build and build and build and build.

Then at another thrust from Sam, he lets it go. And go and go and go.

Sam's already relaxing his body on top of him when Bobby comes back to himself.

This is a bad habit he's letting his lover get into, he thinks. He really ought to stop it.

Next time. Next time he'll stop it.

Right now, he's feeling far too good. He'd rather push his luck with using words some other time.

Some other time far off in the future. A time when he and Sam will look back and wonder what they were ever worried about during these nightmare-ridden sleepless nights.

He hopes so, anyway.

For both their sakes, he hopes.

Fin.


End file.
